


Self-Control

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Gunplay, Humor, M/M, Phone Sex, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At work phone sex. Crack!</p><p>RIP Laura Branigan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plainapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plainapple/gifts).



When Carlton got back to his desk, there was a message to return a call to a "Laura Branigan". He didn't know the name but he was a great detective after all, word got out, witnesses would naturally come to him.

Still, something about the number was familiar, but he didn't realize what until the person on the other end picked up on the second ring.

"Laura Branigan." The voice was smooth, unsurprised, and one hundred percent male. Carlton set his jaw but automatically lowered his voice to a growl.

"Spencer."

"I'm sorry, this is Laura Branigan, you must be mistaken."

"Spencer, I--" Carlton stopped and glanced around before ducking his head toward the surface of his desk. "Shawn. I don't know what you think you're playing at, but I'm hanging up now."

"Well now, I don't know you, sir, nor do I understand what hanging up means, but I'll tell you what I do know...You sound like a strong, firm, reasonably good-looking in the right lighting sort of man."

"Is that a Southern accent?" The question was drawn from him against his will, but Carlton sighed and immediately shook his head. "I don't care. I have work to do."

"I knew it. Hard working man like you, I bet you need a break." The nonsense coming out of Spencer's mouth aside, there was something about how he was talking that Carlton felt like he should know.

"Are you channeling something ridiculous? Because I don't have time for this, so just spill it."

"Channeling, I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Spencer was being coy...and definitely Southern. "But I know you have plenty of time because Jules is out for lunch and your witness won't be there until one."

" _Spencer_."

"Laura. Laura Branigan. I work down at the saloon."

Something clicked. Then something else. Visiting with Hank and his new bride, watching Shawn making a fool of himself, as usual, and expressing excitement over the leftover costumes from Old Sonora.

"I had a moment and so I thought I'd call." Shawn was still talking, as badly in character as ever, and Carlton snapped.

"Call on what, Shawn? You're supposed to be a prostitute from the nineteenth century. You don't have phones."

"We prefer the term saloon girl."

"I prefer the term lunatic." Carlton harrumphed, then glanced around the station. It was mostly empty. He stared at his desk. "You aren't in a dress, are you?"

"What am I wearing?" Shawn tossed back at him. "Why you friendly little collie with an alarming devotion to an accident prone child. Normally I'd have to charge for something like that, but--"

"Shawn." Carlton sat up, felt his ears burning. No one was around but he couldn't help it, when Shawn kept going he dropped down below his desk and pressed the phone to his ear.

"I'm wearing a puka shell necklace, some clean brand new white socks, and a smile. But that's not the question right now."

"It isn't?" The words were strangled. Carlton pulled at his tie and swallowed to ease his very, very dry throat. Shawn was calling him while naked. Shawn was sitting somewhere naked and was on the phone with him. Carlton paused. "Are you in my new chair?"

"That isn't the question either, though yes, yes I am." He wasn't thinking of naked ass on his new leather office chair. He wasn't. Of course, that still left the rest of Shawn's naked body to contemplate.

He should hang up right now.

"Then what is the question?" He couldn't stop himself. Shawn’s way was crazy, but the kind of crazy that solved cases and led to amazing sex. Shawn was practically purring now, probably smirking in that annoying way he had of rewarding Carlton for going along with his insanity.

"What are _you_ wearing?"

Carlton couldn’t speak for a moment. Perhaps it was for the best, since Shawn started to speak for him.

“I bet you’re wearing a dark gray suit with a white shirt and a red tie, with your badge clipped to your belt at your hip, and a shoulder holster with your Glock 17. Is that right, baby?”

“Baby?” Carlton frowned a bit. Shawn ignored his interruption.

“Ooh it is. Why don’t you stroke that for me?”

“Shawn!” Carlton tugged his collar until a button popped. His face was flaming, his blood racing in his ears. “I’m at work…and the Glock hadn’t been invented yet.”

“Then what is it I’m always feeling when you slam me into walls? Come on, just touch it. Touch it a little, for Laura.”

“Your name is Shawn,” Carlton corrected him, hot all over at the idea of…touching his gun like that. It wasn’t a plaything.

“Do it,” Shawn whispered, somehow sensing his hesitation, and Carlton realized his palm was hovering over the butt of his gun a second before he let his fingers trace the length.

He may have made a noise. And Shawn, damn him, knew what it meant. He moaned. Loudly.

Carlton suddenly realized that for all this role playing lunacy, Shawn wasn’t kidding. He was actually _touching himself_ for this. Shawn was naked in Carlton’s new leather chair, with the phone at his ear and one hand on his...

“Again,” Shawn ordered, his breath hitching like he’d just done something that felt nice, and Carlton felt an answering hitch in his chest, along with a tightness at his fly.

“What do you think you are doing?” he demanded in a rasp, his thumb already dragging over the trigger. The holster was smooth and well worn. Shawn gasped, and too late Carlton recognized what that tone of voice did to Shawn.

“Lass.” For a second, Shawn forgot his sad attempt at role play. Carlton closed his eyes, tried not to picture what Shawn was doing, where his hand might be, whether it was out, or in, and oh God, he was at work. He was at work, and he was hard.

Work. He struggled to remember that, and what was expected of him. Like not to jack off in the middle of the station while everyone else was at lunch, or to listen as his nutjob boyfriend did the same in his new chair while pretending to be an Old West dance hall girl.

“In my chair, Spencer?” He was so hot. He was burning, the gun cool against his fingertips. Solid. Big.

“Leather,” Shawn bit out, and Carlton almost jumped to realize he was pressing his knuckles to his holster, how firm yet soft it was, the scent of it if he bent his head more. He wanted to pull his gun out, got dizzy at just the idea.

Stupid and reckless it what it was, and he wouldn’t have considered it if it hadn’t been for Shawn.

He tightened his hold on the phone, but didn’t dare glance around the room.

“Is that what you like, Sha—Laura? Leather?” He wasn’t sure what part of that got the intense reaction from Shawn, but he was darkly pleased if out of breath to hear how Shawn groaned.

“Not fair,” he protested as though he hadn’t started this. Carlton shook his head, trusting in Shawn’s fake psychic abilities to tell Shawn what he was doing. It worked. “But,” Shawn tried to argue. Carlton opened his eyes. He was looking at the floor, but he was seeing Shawn.

“Tell me,” he ordered, barely whispering. He was going to burst into flames. Shawn was probably squirming. “What do you like?”

“Unf, uh, raindrops on roses. Whiskers on kittens. Tears for Fears. Young Val Kilmer.”

“Really, Laura,” Carlton could purr too, even if it killed him. “What else?” His thumb inched down inside the holster, flicking off the safety, flicking it back on. This was dangerous. He looked up, but no one was around.

“You. Your gun. That thing you do with your tongue. Your handcuffs. The way you make banana pancakes. The backseat of your car. The size of your—“

“Shawn. Laura.” Damn it. Carlton froze. “I am at work.”

“I’m picturing it right now in HD,” Shawn panted. “I’ve only got two fingers in, but, unf, Lassie, I could, I could—“

“That’s enough! HD isn’t even around yet, you…scruffy, slutty, careless, little strumpet.”

“Oh God.” Shawn exhaled, completely insane, completely turned on by what he was hearing. Carlton realized he was on his feet and standing over his desk. He stared ahead, and did not imagine Shawn underneath him.

“Oh, did you like that, Spencer?” He was just as out of breath, but every word he was saying seemed to push Shawn a little bit farther. “Three fingers, like the hussy you are.”

“Lass.” The grunt meant Shawn was complying. Carlton pushed against his own desk, and shut his eyes. He licked sweat from his upper lip, and kept his hands where they were, one on the phone, one gripping his Glock tight.

“Do it, Laura,” he barked, patience wearing thin. Shawn gasped, made a strange noise. The phone beeped, and Carlton had the feeling he’d been put on speaker, that Shawn was using both hands on himself.

Damn. He was never going to make it to the bathroom. He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed to wet his mouth. Shawn had started this, but Carlton was going to finish it.

He had brief feeling of loss for his chair, then shook his head. “Are they all the way in?”

A tiny sound eeked out of Shawn/Laura. Agreement. Carlton held back his grunt of approval.

“Wide open, aren’t you, like the completely insane whore that you are. Oh, I’m sorry,” he fake-sneered as Shawn was no doubt rocking into his own hands, “I meant, saloon girl. What about your other hand?”

“That’s not nice,” Shawn protested weakly. Carlton nearly dropped a hand to his crotch. He wanted to, more than Shawn would ever know.

“Do you want nice, Laura?” Carlton didn’t think so. He could practically hear Shawn shake his head.

“N…no.”

“Of course you don’t.” Carlton spoke through clenched teeth. “Not a hussy like you. You just want to take it, don’t you, baby?” He had no idea why Shawn had decided to go with “baby” but he could work with it if he had to. Shawn seemed to like it.

“Lass…Lass…Baby…” He was babbling. It was more than he deserved, calling Carlton like this because he was bored. Bored and yet too lazy get a single fact right. He could give Carlton the statistics on Billy Zane whether he wanted them or not, but couldn’t bother looking up the Old West.

“Now stroke it. Touch it a little for me, baby.” He yanked at his collar, at his tie, anything to let him breathe, to get him some damn air. Shawn was making those noises, about to come noises, and he would be loud.

Carlton couldn’t believe what he was saying, but he swallowed again, then nodded.

“I haven’t got all day,” he snapped and flushed all over at the sounds Shawn made as he ruined Carlton’s new leather chair forever. Carlton was so very hard, and he had to deal with a witness in about ten minutes. He was going to have to run to the bathroom and hope it was empty. And when he got home…

Shawn was letting out small, wet gasps, mumbling something.

“What was that, Laura?” Carlton wondered, mouth-breathing, pressing urgently into his desk, aware that he was blushing and sweaty, that his holster was open, his gun partially exposed.

“I can’t help it, I live among the creatures of the night, I haven’t got the will to try and fight. You take my self, you take my self-control.” The accent had returned. Carlton paused, then heard his voice softening.

“I know the feeling, Shawn,” he whispered, imagining how pliant Shawn would be right now. He opened his eyes with a regretful sigh, then froze to see O’Hara standing there. With his witness. Who was early.

“I’m hanging up now,” he managed, and quickly sat the hell back down.


End file.
